


Leather

by Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mild Gore, like super mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog/pseuds/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smell of leather, pressed against her. As Jackson kisses her. As a man with red eyes tears her apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather

**Author's Note:**

> A very late night ficlet for my lovely partner-in-crime Nessa for the prompt ''Leather''.

Sharp and primal.

The scent of leather warmed by the body, a distinctive smell that on its own reminds her too much of something darker, something animalistic in its core.

Jackson wore leather – of course he did, and looked amazing whilst doing so, but it was different. The smell of leather mingled with the spicy tang of his cologne, a fragrance she loved to wrap herself in until she was drowning in it – in Jackson. Press her face against and just inhale. He’d wrap it around her shoulders when they went out, tuck it in close, thinking she can’t see his secret smile into her hair, and she lets him believe that, if only because she gets those smiles all for herself. But she can feel it – feel that smile against her skin, and her heart stutters.

She presses her face against a cotton shirt and the smell of cologne and boy is not the same, not enough, and she turns from Stiles, leads him off the dance floor and steps out into the night.

A nice night, clear and cool, the air smelling fresh and she walks out into the open field, the smell of grass and night dew.

And the smell of leather.

Or maybe not _just_ leather. Maybe it’s dirt and grass, of the night air and the hot stench of blood, of teeth in her throat and claws at her hips and a familiar voice shouting and a roar and eyes that gleam red.

Lydia screams.

Out loud.

Or only in her head?

And she can’t hear her own screaming, can’t hear anything over the deafening roar – over the man with the red eyes. Or is that roaring her blood in her ears? Her blood in her head. Her neck. Out her neck onto her shoulders. Into her hair.

There are teeth in her throat.

There are hands, nails, fingers in her sides.

And the smell of leather.

It’s all around her.

She’s drowning in it.

The scent of leather warmed by the body.

Sharp and primal.

Animalistic.

And the soft touch under her jaw. She can feel it – feel that smile against her skin, and her heart stutters.

She can feel it, white hot lines that go deep into the softness of her sides, keep going, until they stop, can’t go in any further and oh, that grinding feeling. Bone. He’s hit bone – the pain can’t go deeper because of her hip bone.

The lines – knives – fingers – _claws_ retract with a slick sound.

Leather pressed against her face and it’s all she can smell, it’s in her lungs, in her very pores and she _can’t_ escape.

The last thing she knows as the pain takes her away is the smell of leather and a rumbling growl. And the smell of her own blood.

No one hears her screams.


End file.
